


A Drop in Pressure

by featherandink



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Party, F/M, Fainting, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Holidays, Light Angst, Mild Blood, Post-War, Romance, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28165449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherandink/pseuds/featherandink
Summary: Her ribs hitch on the edge of an inhale. The ground beneath her feet drops into nothingness.“Oh,” is all she manages to say before her vision turns black.Or: Hermione Granger is in pursuit of an answer.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 15
Kudos: 202





	A Drop in Pressure

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Secret Santa, Irina. I love you more than words can describe. I'll always keep trying anyway.

_The Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?”_

_-_ **East of Eden,** **John Steinbeck**

* * *

_red._

Hermione is deep in concentration, methodically chopping a gurdyroot into one-inch pieces, when there’s a small explosion behind her.

Explosions in potions class— and in general— have become much less common now that Seamus is no longer at Hogwarts, so the sound of a sudden, clapping _boom_ , especially just a few short months after the War has ended, is enough to make Hermione flinch.

Hard.

The movement causes the edge of the knife she’s using to slip against the fingers of her opposite hand. Before she can even register the sharp string of pain, thin lines of crimson appear against her skin, but by then she’s too distracted to care. Curiosity gets the best of her and she turns around to see what the source of the noise is.

Draco Malfoy sits directly behind her, though his face is obscured by a column of smoke. As usual, his table is unoccupied by anyone else.

With an odd number of students in the class, he is the only student who works without a partner.

It had been an uneventful thing, with no call for volunteers to work alone and no announcement— just a general understanding that no one wanted to work with a former Death Eater.

If it weren’t for their shared Head role duties and his name, it would be easy to forget about his presence with the way he navigates Hogwarts like a ghost: head down and mouth shut. She frequently wonders if his personality change was a choice, or the inevitable result of living through a War on the wrong side, only allowed back into society on the mere technicality of being underage.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

It wouldn’t be the first time Hermione dwelled on things of little consequence. Besides, whatever any of them were before, they aren’t any longer.

It’s funny to think of such a thing looking at Malfoy right now, with his usually platinum blonde hair tinged a dusty grey from the explosion, the edges of his robes crisp and ashen. Thin wisps of smoke still emanate from his cauldron, blurring the expression on his face. It’s the only explanation for why his eyes look so dull.

From what Hermione can tell, the entire class is looking at him. And if she’s aware of it, surely Malfoy feels it too.

“Mister Malfoy,” Professor Slughorn says, breaking the heavy silence that’s draped over the room. He takes his wand out of his robes and clears the smoke from Malfoy’s cauldron. “What on earth happened?”

It turns out that his eyes really are that dull. He blinks once, stone grey shuttering against the pale of his eyelids, before clearing his throat.

“I must have not been paying attention, Professor,” he replies matter-of-factly. “My apologies.”

Hermione squints at him, trying to look for signs that he’s lying: a clenched jaw or a twitch of the eyebrow. Harry has an awful habit of scratching the back of his neck whenever he lies, but she figures that Malfoy is more artful than that, being a Slytherin and all.

She finds nothing besides a bright red, angry burn on his neck that’s startling against his pale skin. The irregular shape of it is concentrated around his Adam’s apple, but there are a few messy edges that have made their way up the underside of his chin.

The image of blood spatter floods her mind, and she turns her attention back to her desk, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded.

“Hermione,” comes Neville’s voice from beside her, “are you alright? Y- you’re dripping blood on the table.”

She frowns and moves her hand to find that Neville’s right. Droplets of crimson line the wooden surface of the desk like raindrops against a windowpane.

Her ribs hitch on the edge of an inhale. The ground beneath her feet drops into nothingness.

“ _Oh_ ,” is all she manages to say before her vision turns black.

* * *

_exchange_.

Reality does not come back to Hermione like a hazy dream. It is not a gradual awakening of the senses, a wide yawn, or a lazy stretch of the limbs.

No, the first thing she feels when she regains consciousness is a searing pain at the edge of her forehead. She hisses in discomfort and bolts up from the infirmary bed to bring a hand to her head. Instead of skin, her fingers brush up against the rough surface of a bandage.

“Careful,” a familiar voice says. “You hit your head pretty hard.”

She shifts her body to turn towards Malfoy, who’s seated on an identical bed several feet away from her. Madam Pomfrey hovers beside him, carefully applying a bright pink paste to the burn he received from the explosion.

The upper half of his shirt is unbuttoned to a point where Hermione can see the large, faded scar that runs across the expanse of his chest.

Even though she’s never seen it before, the sight of it feels— familiar. Expected. She’s known about it for a long time, but it’s longer than she imagined, starting from under his collarbone and making its way to an unknown place underneath his opposite rib.

She realizes that she’s been looking at Malfoy for too long. Immediately, her eyes shift to focus on the floor, but she can feel her cheeks heating all the same. A strange mixture of guilt and embarrassment fills the pit of her stomach.

“I… fainted,” she says lamely, needing something, _anything_ , to push away the buzz of thoughts in her mind.

“That would be correct,” replies Malfoy. “You nearly gave Slughorn a heart attack.”

She sneaks another glance at him then, careful not to look at his chest this time.

It’s been jarring, adjusting to this new post-War version of him who rarely talks to her more than is required. She’s slowly become accustomed to moments of silence between them over the past few months— welcomed them, even— which makes this whole situation even more awkward. They hardly speak more than five sentences to each other at a time.

It doesn’t seem right for her to know what the aftermath of her best friend’s attempted murder on him looks like.

In her effort to not let her eyes stray anywhere below his collarbone, her gaze catches on his forehead, where a smudge of soot remains. The sight of it on Malfoy, usually so refined and uptight, sends a small jolt of joy through her. Something is pleasing about seeing him unkempt.

She opens her mouth to say something, but at that exact moment, Madam Pomfrey moves away from him and announces she’ll be back in an hour to check up on Hermione’s head injury, adding that if she could _please_ refrain from making any sudden movements in the meantime, it would be very much appreciated.

The sound of Pomfrey’s sensible heels _clacking_ against the floors gets quieter with every second, eventually giving way to silence. Hermione rubs the bandage on her forehead just to pass the time. She’s never fainted before, so she goes over the events of what she can remember, trying to figure out the root of the problem.

“How long was I out?” she asks, looking towards Malfoy. It doesn’t seem like he’s moved an inch, but his shirt is buttoned back up.

He gives her a tiny, imperceptible shrug of his shoulder. “Not long. Maybe a few minutes.”

“Oh.” It certainly felt longer than that.

They fall back into their default state of silence.

“Malfoy,” she starts.

He glances over at her with the slightest raise of his brows, the only indication that he’s heard her at all.

“Someone sabotaged your potion.” Though she’s not confident they’re true at all, the words come out through an even tone. After years of mischief alongside Harry and Ron, she’s learned that stating a question as a fact is sometimes the quickest way to the truth.

His face falters for a moment, and she sees the beginning of a scowl settle across his features. The image of it is so familiar, so unlike the empty shell of a person he is now. It’s an unfortunate reminder that the subdued Malfoy in front of her is the same person as the horrible boy who tormented her in the past.

The moment is gone as quickly as it comes.

By the time Hermione blinks, she’s greeted by the now-familiar sight of Malfoy’s blank face.

He lets out a puff of air. She assumes he means for it to be a dry laugh, but it comes out so humorless and quiet that it can’t possibly qualify as anything but an outward push of air from his lungs.

"And what makes you think that?" His low, aristocratic drawl stretches the words out like taffy.

Hermione hesitates before deciding to be honest. "You wouldn't make a mistake like that in potions."

His only response is a blink of his eyes.

"Everyone knows that you're good at potions," she adds, already feeling a little uneasy complimenting him. It's not that she thinks he doesn't deserve to hear it, but she's not exactly sure he _does_ deserve it, either. She’s not sure of anything when it comes to him.

"Do they?"

She blames the head injury for the audible groan that slips out of her mouth. She's usually content to play along with his game of impersonal civility, but doesn't have it in her today.

"Stop acting so" —she frowns— "humble. You know it's true, and I know someone messed up your potion. Who was it?"

He examines his fingernails. "I don't know."

When she begins to respond, her chest already bursting with the knowledge that she was _right_ , his eyes flash up to hers, glinting with a sharp edge that stuns her into silence.

"That's the truth, Granger," he says firmly. "It could've been anyone in the class, honestly."

She thinks back to the beginning of the term when a sixth-year prefect spat on his shoulder after a meeting and called him Death Eater scum. Malfoy didn’t do anything in response— not even a simple _scourgify_. All he did was note the time before walking out of the room as if nothing had happened.

She remembers the ache that had blossomed in her chest then, how strange it had felt. She realizes that it was pity, now.

“I wouldn't have done that,” she declares.

His steely gaze softens a fraction.

"I know."

The words leave him quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

It's an admission that a partnership between them exists, no matter how detached they might be from each other.

Hermione has to admit that it's comforting to know that Malfoy trusts her, at least to an extent. She thinks the same of him, though she’s been too scared to acknowledge the sentiment herself. Sure, he's been nothing short of reliable and civil, but his withdrawn nature has caused her to wonder if he's been secretly holding onto his hatred this whole time. It doesn't seem like that's the case.

She's cautious, still, but this is— this surely means something.

“You’re Head Boy, you know,” she reminds him. “You could deduct points for something like that. I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to catch the person who did it.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“People get sent to St. Mungo’s for cauldron explosions, you know.”

“You’re the one who split her head open,” he retorts.

This is, undoubtedly, the most casually they’ve ever spoken to each other. The realization causes her to fidget with the curls at the base of her neck.

“If you don’t want to get the person in trouble, fine,” she says, ignoring his jab at her. “But I could— I can partner with you if you’d like. No one would mess with you that way.”

Malfoy stares at her with wide eyes that quickly narrow in suspicion, causing her to wonder if she’s made a horrible misstep. The nervous energy swirling around in her stomach morphs into a wave of embarrassment.

“And why would you do that?”

The light flush on her face deepens several shades. Why does he always respond to her with questions?

“Well, I mean— we’re partners— we’re both Heads,” she scrambles for the right words, but everything seems to come out wrong. “We should have each other’s back.”

God, she sounds just as bad as McGonagall.

But Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind. All he says is, “And what about Longbottom?”

She’s so shocked that she can’t stop a laugh from escaping her throat, grating and clumsy against her vocal cords.

At first, she doesn’t even realize why he’s asked about Neville. Then, it occurs to her that he’s worried— no, _acknowledging_ — that her partnering with him will leave Neville without a potions partner.

“Neville will be fine. Slughorn has been obsessed with him ever since he pulled that stunt with Nagini.”

He looks at her for a moment. Or rather, at something behind her. It lasts long enough that she’s just about to turn around to see what’s there when Malfoy lets out a clipped, “Alright then.”

Hermione watches him carefully as places his palms on the edge of the bed, curls his fingers into the linens, and pushes himself off the mattress to stand.

When he leaves the room without another word, she can’t figure out what she’s more confused about: the fact that he left so abruptly, or the fact that he stayed after Pomfrey cleared him to leave.

She falls back to lie on the bed. Her temple throbs so violently she can feel her heartbeat through it.

* * *

_guest_.

After a conversation with Slughorn that’s far more lengthy than it needs to be, Hermione slips into the seat beside Malfoy during potions.

Neville twists around in his seat to smile at her.

She spoke to him yesterday about her plans to partner with Malfoy, and he was kind and understanding as always. She’d made up an excuse about McGonagall saying that they needed to work together; a hint of the truth wrapped in deceit.

She’s not the type to keep the truth from her friends, but Malfoy hadn’t exactly divulged the fact that the school body was terrorizing him on his own terms, and she’d felt the need to— respect that.

Still, she feels bad about lying to Neville, especially as he makes an effort to look at Malfoy and gives him a small smile, too.

She tries not to laugh at the strange movement Malfoy’s head makes in response, something in between a twitch and a nod. Her resolve almost breaks at the sideways glance he gives her, but right before it does, Slughorn begins addressing the class.

She readjusts her body to face the front of the room.

No one even glances in the direction of their cauldron.

* * *

_firewood._

Malfoy is somehow both the best and worst potions partner she’s ever had. It’s infuriating.

He’s the best because he’s undoubtedly good at it, which she knew before partnering up with him. Unlike every other partner she’s had, he reads the brewing instructions before beginning, not just as he goes along. He does that too, though, because he likes to double-check his work.

He’s the worst because he might actually be better than her. Or at least he thinks he is. For someone so quiet, he is annoyingly vocal when it comes to correcting her on the proper way to cut ingredients.

 _You have to slice against the grain_ , _Granger. At an angle. No, here, pass it over—_

No wonder everyone thought she was so annoying if that was what she acted like.

Hermione makes a mental note to bring it up with Harry and Ron the next time they visit before drawing her attention back to her Charms textbook. Ever since she and Malfoy partnered up, they’ve taken to the habit of studying in the common room together. It’s a space that was never occupied by both of them before. They share the Head suite, as is the standard, but Malfoy spends so much time to himself that they hardly come across each other. Or he used to, at least.

Now, she’s hyperaware of his presence just a few feet away from her on the couch. It’s got nothing to do with that day in potions, when he took the knife from her and curved his exceptionally long fingers around the hilt.

It’s only that it’s a— new environment. These things take time to adjust to.

As is the standard.

“Your notes for this are wrong, Malfoy,” she blurts out, before she can follow that unproductive line of thinking any further.

He raises a skeptical eyebrow at her.

She’s learned that Malfoy prefers to speak in these subtle ways instead of words. Somewhere along these three weeks, she’s discovered that this particular expression is an indication of expectation, a sign to continue.

So she does. “ _Fianto duri_ isn’t supposed to cast a white-blue light in conjunction with _protego maxima_ , it’s supposed to cast a yellow-blue light.”

“It’s white-blue,” he counters.

A scowl appears on her face. She’s much more comfortable with this emotion. “But I put yellow-blue in my notes, Malfoy, and I’m almost positive—”

“I’ve seen it,” he says through tight lips, “and I remember what it looks like.”

She stills for a moment, pushing her annoyance aside to study the change in his demeanor. She’s always studying him, reading him, waiting to find the answer at the end of the book.

A page flips; she inches closer.

She sees the harsh clench of his jaw, the way his eyes dull from silver to grey, and recognizes it as the same look he gave her right before he left the infirmary so abruptly.

Hermione is a good student. Sometimes, this means knowing the right questions to ask.

“Malfoy. Where did you go?”

He turns his head away from her. When he takes his quill and corrects his notes without another word, there is the slightest tremor in his hand.

* * *

_icicle_.

They don’t talk about it.

She doesn’t know why she expects anything different.

* * *

_snow_.

On the first Saturday of December, the snow falls at a steady pace perfect for viewing from the comfort of the indoors: too slow to be violent and too fast to long to be outside.

Hermione is usually an early riser, but today she’s content to stay in bed long after she wakes. With her legs still snuggled underneath the warmth of her flannel sheets, she props her back against her headboard and does some light reading, her eyes alternating between the book in her hands and the sight of snow accumulating on the grounds through her window. It’s the best morning she’s had in a while.

By the time she musters the willpower to leave her room, it’s nearly 10:00 am, long after the Great Hall has closed for breakfast. Luckily, there’s a small kitchenette in the Head suite, equipped with the bare minimum needed to make some oatmeal and coffee.

After her light meal, she walks into the common area and is greeted by the sight of Malfoy seated on the floor, hunched over their living room table. It’s endearing in the strangest way, inciting the same giddy feeling she got when his face was smudged with soot in the infirmary.

It’s just— nice. To see him so human, with all of his sharp edges smoothed out. He looks younger when the line of his shoulders isn’t taut with tension. He almost looks his age.

At the sound of her footsteps, he looks up, shifting his posture immediately.

“I was just going over the things we need to get for the Winter Social,” he says.

The subject of the social instantly sours Hermione’s good mood.

Of all of the duties that she planned on having as a Head Girl, party planning was not among them. And yet, because McGonagall has gotten it into her head that the best way to end the first post-war term at Hogwarts is with a _party_ , she and Malfoy are stuck with the task. Hermione has pushed it to the side in favor of things that matter, like studying for N.E.W.T.s, but it seems like he has taken it upon himself to begin the preparation work.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

A crease appears between her brows as she processes his words.

“Am I alright?” she repeats, fighting the urge to reach up and pat her hair. She distinctively remembers styling it this morning. Is it her outfit? She glances down at her red cable-knit jumper and jeans. It’s sensible, sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. Is there something on her face?

He nods gravely. “You’re usually— up earlier.”

Relief washes over her in a wave, causing her to release a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. Then, upon seeing the concern etched into his expression, the tide rises, twisting her insides into nervous knots.

“I’m fine,” she says with a smile. “I was just reading.”

His eyes widen just a fraction before he ducks his head down to look at the floor. Hermione feels her stomach drop to join him there on their dingy carpet, since it seems like he’s incapable of even looking at her face.

“Of course you were,” is his quiet reply.

When he looks back up, his cheeks are tinged pink.

Hermione crouches down to sit across from him, folding her legs underneath her body, somewhere on top of her phantom stomach. She reaches out to review his list of items.

“What were you reading?”

“It’s a Muggle book,” she replies automatically, moving to grab the quill that sits on the table.

There’s a soft scratching noise of point against parchment as she scribbles a few more things onto the list. “You’re missing a few things. And we can’t buy alcohol unless someone is there to make sure students are of age.”

She pauses, an idea forming in her head. “We could get Noah to do it.” The prefect was a horrible one, even if he hadn’t spit on Malfoy.

When a few seconds pass by with no response, she turns her head to look at him expectantly.

He’s staring at the table with a look of determination that Hermione’s never seen in him before.

“Malfoy?”

His eyes meet hers. She braces herself for the inevitable coldness she feels whenever he goes off to wherever he goes.

The space between them crackles with intensity instead.

“I thought you knew.” His voice is steady, but it strains at the end in a way Hermione recognizes in herself. “I don’t know why I expected you to know. That was— unfair of me. But I—”

He runs a hand through his hair and tries again.

“I don’t think those things about Muggles anymore. And I’m sorry that I did, but I can’t pretend like I didn’t. And I have been trying—”

“Malfoy.” She fights to urge to reach out with a hand.

He stops and swallows, his Adam’s apple shifting across a pale expanse of skin where there once was a splotch of red. She remembers how the burn stretched across, down to the area directly underneath his jaw.

“I’ve been trying to make it clear that I don’t think those things anymore.”

“I know,” she says. “I’ve known. I wouldn’t— trust you if I didn’t think anything else of you.”

He blinks. The sight is boyish this time, void of its usual impassivity edges.

“Oh. Okay.”

“When I said that, it was just an instinct,” she explains. “No one ever cares about what I’m reading.”

He raises his eyebrows, shooting her that look of expectation. Her heart stutters at the same time her belly clenches.

“It’s called _East of Eden_.” She waits for a moment, and when his expression doesn’t change, she continues. “It’s about these two families who live in the U.S. It’s a bit hard to describe, but I actually— I think you might like it.”

The last words slip out of her mouth before she realizes what she’s saying. They haven’t discussed their taste in literature yet, haven’t quite reached that point in their newfound attempts at conversation.

She knows that he doesn’t think those things anymore, but there has always been a chasm between her two worlds, Wizarding and Muggle, and even her closest friends have never been able to bridge that gap. It’s not something she holds against them; she could never expect them to understand.

But then she thinks of the struggle for acceptance, the relationship between parent and child, the idea of innate good and evil. She remembers the words she read that morning, _thou mayest_ , and she believes Malfoy might understand.

“Could I borrow it when you’re finished?” he asks, peering over to examine the items she’s added.

Hermione doesn’t remember the last time she’s ever smiled so wide.

* * *

_display._

After spending so much time in the Head suite, it’s strange to step back into the Gryffindor dorms. She was a different person when she slept in these beds and lounged on this sofa. Different worries racked her mind at night; different sorrows filled her heart. It’s a blessing to have a space of her own now, one that’s unmarred by memories of a life that feels so out of reach. The haunted walls of the castle are hard enough to navigate.

The sound of raucous laughter drifts into the room.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I swear to Merlin, those girls never shut up.”

Hermione shrugs and turns around for her friend to zip up her dress. “I think it’s nice that they’re having fun.” Someone might as well enjoy this blasted Winter Social, with all the effort she’s put into it.

The loose red fabric at her waist lifts to wrap around her torso as Ginny pulls the zipper upward.

“You wouldn’t think that if you heard this shit every day,” she mumbles.

Hermione spins around, smoothing her hands over her front. “Thanks, Ginny.”

She _tsks_ in response, wagging a finger. “Not done.” A freckled hand waves around in the direction of Hermione’s chest. “May I? Parvati taught me a new spell.”

“What? Um. Sure?”

Ginny slips her wand out of its nestled place in her cleavage and reaches forward with the other, grabbing ahold of Hermione’s breast and lifting it. Her surprised shriek drowns out the laughter of the girls outside and the incantation Ginny murmurs.

“There.” The redhead steps back with a smug look on her face.

“Ginny!” Hermione looks down at herself and finds that whatever she’s done is— actually quite nice. It must be some sort of lifting charm. She looks back up. “You know what.”

“You’re _welcome_.” Ginny steps towards her, adjusting the sleeves of her own dress, a striking gold number that brings out the copper in her hair. “Since Harry isn’t here, I’m living vicariously through you tonight.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow.

When Ginny doesn’t respond, she presses. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Ginny’s reply is to look as if she’s just been slapped in the face.

“Hermione.”

“What?”

“ _Hermione_.” Her green eyes are tinged with desperation. “If you and Malfoy don’t put an end to the Victorian-era repression that you’re putting yourselves through, I might truly lose my mind. Even _Neville_ asked me about you two the other day.”

“Neville!” Her shoulders soften. “I thought it would just take time for you to open up about it, and I want to give you space, but— Merlin. If Neville is noticing the looks you’re giving Malfoy in potions…”

Hermione takes a step back from her. Ginny is right; she’s not ready to have this conversation. She doesn’t understand what Malfoy is to her, or what it is that draws her towards him like the gentle tug of gravity. Some things are better left alone.

“Nothing is going on between me and Malfoy.”

“ _Yet_.”

Her cheeks are hot with embarrassment and shame. She looks away, twiddling with her curls.

“We’re just Heads. Really.”

Ginny gives her an exhausted look. For a moment, Hermione catches a glimpse of Molly in her eyes. “Fine,” she says, throwing her hands up in defeat. “But I’m not undoing that spell. Your tits look fantastic.”

Hermione spares them another glance. “They do.”

* * *

_celebration_.

Despite her conversation with Ginny, a pang of longing takes hold of the space behind her ribs when she catches sight of Malfoy.

He’s standing off to the side of the Great Hall, dressed in an impeccable set of charcoal grey dress robes. They’re a departure from his usual all-black ensemble, but the change is nice. It makes him look less harsh.

Crowds of people navigate the room, their buzzing energy filling the atmosphere. One might think that Malfoy has cast a set of protective wards with the way that despite the throng of students moving haphazardly, drunk on excitement or alcohol or both, no one ventures within a five-mile radius of him.

Hermione knows better and moves to slip through the barrier with ease. The moment he senses her presence, he removes his hands from his pockets. There’s the slightest upwards turn at the corner of his mouth.

“It looks nice,” she says by way of a greeting, gesturing to their surroundings. “We did a good job.”

Malfoy nods, a downward movement of his chin. In the same split second, his eyes flash across her body, examining her appearance. It’s quick enough to remain respectful and slow enough for Hermione to recognize it for what it is: an acknowledgment.

“You look nice.”

She swallows, takes a deep breath in, and manages a smile of her own. “Thank you. So do you.”

He gives her another nod and turns to face the rest of the room beside her.

As her gaze sweeps across the Hall, it catches on a small table glistening with an assortment of drinks: mugs of butterbeer, flutes of champagne, and goblets of wine. There’s not a prefect in sight.

“Did Noah skive off?” she hisses, grabbing ahold of the skirt of her dress as she readies herself for a scolding.

Malfoy’s hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, stopping her immediately, stilling her heartbeat. The moment she looks up at him, he releases her.

“Sorry.” He shoves the same hand into his pocket. “It’s fine. Noah doesn’t have to be there.”

She glares at him. “We can’t leave alcohol out _unsupervised_.”

“We’re not.” He almost looks a little— embarrassed? Hermione tucks the image away in her ever-growing filing cabinet of Malfoy-related knowledge. She’ll match it to an emotion later.

He stands there in silence, but she’s never let go of things easily.

The slightest lift of her brows is all it takes for him to cave.

“I put a charm on the glasses. It’s nothing special. It’s a sort of— modification on the age line that was put on the Goblet of Fire.”

Hermione stares at him with parted lips. A slow burn in her core sparks. It’s a familiar feeling, one well-acquainted with the pitch-black of her room and fingers underneath her sheets.

He gives her a confused look, the same face he makes at particularly difficult runes translations.

“I’m sure you could do it, too. It’s just a combination of a repellant charm and an age-detection spell.” He pauses. “Would you like me to teach you?”

Hermione can’t distinguish the sudden urge she gets to punch him in the face from her desire to snog him senseless.

“Sure.” She shifts, adjusting the fabric around her diaphragm in the hopes that it’ll let her breathe. “I’m just going to” —she waves in the direction of the table— “test your charm myself. Would you like anything?”

More than anything, she needs to gain some space from him to recalibrate her wits.

“A glass of wine sounds nice,” replies Malfoy. She almost rolls her eyes at how predictable he is. “I can get them, though—”

“—No, it’s fine.” The words come out harsher than intended. “I should check in with Ginny and Neville anyways.”

His expression falters, an unfair thing of him to do. He can’t make her stay. He’ll survive without her for a few minutes.

“Alright.”

* * *

_gift._

When she begins her trek back to the spot where Malfoy is, a little wobbly on her heels, he’s nowhere to be found.

At first, she thinks that she’s just misremembered where he was. The disorienting environment doesn’t help, with all the tinsel and ivy and shimmering lights enough to make her slightly lightheaded. But she clearly recalls the wall lamp bolted above the spot; it had reflected off Malfoy’s platinum blonde hair in a way that made it seem white.

Just as her temper begins to flare into something between devastation and rage, he slides into the space beside her.

It takes one look at the tightness in his eyes to know what happened.

“Where did you go?” she asks, echoing the words from the night they’ve never brought up again. Her voice isn’t as gentle this time.

“My apologies. I just had to get some air.”

“No.” She clenches her jaw. “I meant, where did you go?” Her eyes drag up to look at his forehead.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Hermione is glad for the two drinks in her hands. They give her something to latch onto, to curl her fingers around and tighten.

“I notice things, you know.” Her best efforts can’t stop her voice from cracking. “I notice you. I always— you leave, sometimes. I don’t know where you go.”

She looks straight ahead, gaze focused on the decorated Christmas tree that sits in the room. The gold star topper swims in her vision.

In her periphery, she can tell that Malfoy is looking at her, but she can’t— she won’t turn her head.

“I didn’t realize that you— could tell,” he says quietly. “It’s only— sometimes I use Occlumency.”

“I know that.”

“Then why did you—”

“I just needed to hear you say it.”

She’s never been more aware of the silence between them. Instead of a comforting break from the noise that fills her days, it’s stifling, wrapping its way around her throat and constricting her vocal cords.

“I didn’t realize that it made you upset.”

 _It doesn’t_ , she tries to say, but the string around her neck is still tight and the words get stuck. She closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

She has somehow managed to find herself living in a world where Draco Malfoy has apologized to her twice. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so heartbreaking.

“I wouldn’t have done it around you if I had known. People usually can’t tell. Hermione, I didn’t—”

Her eyes snap open to meet his, molten silver against warm copper. He’s crouched over her, standing so close that she can smell his cologne. It’s not the first time she’s caught a hint of the scent, a mix of pine and mint, but the proximity makes it overwhelming. It’s too much.

She takes a large step back. The forgotten wine in her hands surges back and forth with the movement, spilling over the rims of the cups and onto Malfoy’s robes.

Someone in the background lets out a quiet gasp. Hermione takes one look at the splotches on his jacket, quickly darkening grey into black, and swallows.

Before she can even register what’s happening, Malfoy vanishes the cups in her hands.

“Hermione?” Nothing is needed to translate his expression into one of pure concern.

The edges of her vision are beginning to blur as he inches closer and places a steady hand at the small of her back: a firm pressure at the base of her spine. They move towards an empty table nearby and Hermione all but plops onto the seat.

She feels like she’s going to be sick.

Malfoy stoops down at her feet and reaches into his robes to pull out a small vial of green liquid.

“Here.” He offers it to her. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s an anti-nausea potion.”

She squints, struggling to focus. “What?” is all she can manage.

His lips thin into a tight line. “I notice things, too.”

* * *

_evergreen_.

“Thank you,” she manages, letting her head fall against the back of her seat.

Underneath the table, his knee presses against her own.

Neither of them moves an inch.

“How did you know?” Her voice croaks from unshed tears and anger that she’s too tired to cling to.

“I didn’t,” he answers. “I had— a suspicion. It’s not uncommon for people to faint at the sight of blood.”

“I never did before.” She doesn’t have to see him to laugh at the look on his face. The sound soars upwards to join the twinkling fairy lights above her.

“Did you know that Muggles do this thing where they draw blood from your veins? I’ve had it done without a problem.”

“That sounds painful.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Still. Are you feeling better?”

Without shifting from her relaxed position against the chair, she slips her hand off her thigh and searches for Malfoy’s. There’s an awkward fumble when she finds it, blindly intertwining her fingers with his.

He brushes his thumb against her knuckles, a tentative touch that tests the novel feeling of his skin against hers.

“Should we— talk about it?”

She grins and finally meets his gaze, steady and sure and solid. “Always with the questions.”

The smile he gives her in return is the first real one she’s seen. Free of his usual veil of careful restraint, the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkles when his mouth curves upwards. She tucks the image away, pushing it to the front of the others.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m quite intellectually inclined.”

A laugh escapes from somewhere deep in her belly. His smile widens.

“I told you. I always notice you, Draco.”

* * *

_candlelight_.

The moment they step across the threshold of their door, she moves to slant her lips across his.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he whispers, the words brushing against the corner of her mouth. “Are you—?”

She drags her hand across his neck, inching upwards until she can wrap it in the back of his hair.

“For someone so quiet, you’re talking an awful lot today,” she mutters.

His replying chuckle is low, a steady drone that she can feel vibrate in his chest. She presses herself closer to him in a search for steady pressure, hoping it might quell the nervous buzz that scatters across her skin.

Her hand slides down the ladder of his vertebrae to grasp the back of his robes and pulls. He tosses his shoulders back, the movement causing the fabric to loosen around his torso, while his hands move to unzip her dress.

“You are so— beautiful,” The words hum against the side of her neck.

“I know.” She smiles into his lips.

“I need you to hear me say it,” he tells her, breath ghosting into her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

She pushes him back and he stumbles, catching himself against their hallway at the last moment. He drags her along the short length of the wall, briefly pulling away to press kisses against the hollow of her throat, the edge of her jaw, the corners of her eyes.

They end up in Draco’s bedroom only because it’s the closest.

When he presses her body into his bed, the red fabric slips down her torso in one fluid movement. She revels in the way his breath stutters in his chest. The dress hadn’t worked well with a bra.

He leans back to remove the rest, and she follows him, tugging his top off. Scars splash across his skin like constellations against the expanse of night.

Once they’re both devoid of every possible fabric separating their skin, she moves forward to capture his lips again. He shifts away, and for a moment, Hermione wonders what’s wrong.

Then she feels his eyes blaze into her body, and crackling anxiety gives way to small fires. She recognizes what he’s doing; it’s strange to see her own focus reflected in him. He’s studying her, trying to commit the image of her to memory.

There is no doubt in her mind that he has been watching her, too.

“I just want to see you,” he murmurs.

As he looks at her, she does the same in return, heart clenching at the sight of his tousled hair, how it sticks up in every which direction. He’s breathing heavily.

“You do.”

It feels like the truest thing she’s ever said.


End file.
